A MERRY CHRISTMAS

New Zealand Herald, Volume LXXI, Issue 21991, 24 December 1934, Page 3

A MERRY CHRISTMAS

A NEW ZEALAND STORY.

BV JEAN BOS WELL

(COPYRIGHT)

Along the sea-cliffs, high above the sounding surf, the pohutukawas flamed, great bonfires of scarlet bloom, quickened to a fiery brilliance bv the blazing summer sun. From the summit of the hill—an ancient Maori pa—the teatree blossom rolled, tumbling from ridge to ridge in billowing waves of white, a veritable cascade of snowy flowers. Ralph Thornton stood in the cool of his vine-embowered porch, looking across his own trim lawns to that wild garden, yet scarcely conscious of its beauty, or of the fragance wafted over to him in warm waves from those floral censers. A nuisance, that tea-tree-hillside, the neighbouring farmers said —a menace to 'their wellordered paddocks of grass and crops, but still Ralph Thornton stayed axe and fire, simply because his wife, Marcia, waited all the year for that leaping of snowy bloom, and gloried as the fragant sea surged tumultuously j down to the valley below. And now Marciy lay ill —so ill that perhaps never again would she watch the green skyline change to scarlet, nor ever again gaze in rapture on the white wonder of the hillside in tea-tree blossom-time. Life without Marcia! Ralph Thornton's face contracted in sudden fear as he visualised it—as he pictured the bleakness of any world, even .1 world of eternal summer, without Marcia. He started suddenly as he heard footsteps coming from his wife's room, and turned to meet the doctor, who was being escorted to the door by the nurse. He tried to speak casually, but his trembling lips betrayed him. " What do you think of her, Doctor Connors? Nothing—serious—? " "Well, I have hardly formed a decided opinion. No organic trouble, certainly, but —extreme weakness. I am sorry to say it, but she is—very low. These cases of retarded convalescence after pneumonia are fairly common, of course, but in this case there seems to be—a—l hardly know how to say it — but your wife appears to make no eflort —to have no desire to get well. I may be mistaken—she is disinclined to talk —" " Why, Doctor Connors, she has j always seemed happy—she has every- | thing she wants." Thornton's eyes were j filled with a hurt surprise. " Oh well! " Doctor Connors spoke | more cheerfully, and began to descend j the path. " There is always hope, of j course. I'd advise a change of scene. | later on. I'd say immediately, only J , suppose you wouldn't care to go away { now, so close to Christmas? " " I'll take her whenever you say, doc- • tor. Christmas means no more to us j than any other time—no yougsters. j you know." j " No youngsters! " The doctor looked | surprised. " Why, I thought— Whoso ; were those children then, that were here when I came? " " Neighbour's children. She often has j 'em over." Thornton spoke absently. ; " We had one—stillborn. No chance of I any more, you understand." " Ever think of adopting one, Mr. j Thornton ? " j " We have discussed it, long ago, but ; I want my own —and hers —you see, or ' none. I'm not so fond of kids as all | that." " Your wife feel the same, of j courser " The doctor observed him I keenly. " I—l don't know," admitted Thorn- | ton. " I believe so. She —she did say, j once —but I expect it was because she j thought I would be wanting one." " You think so? " the doctor spoke ! dryly. " Well, take my advice, Mr. Thornton, and think again. Might make j a difference. It's your business, of ! course, but after all, why shouldn't ! you ? There's a fine child somewhere crying out for such a home as this, and | apparently you don't lack ' the need- ! ful ' at all, judging by your prosperouslooking farm. Here! Look at this." i pulliug a small booklet out of his j pocket and thrusting it into Thornton's | hand. " This is an orphanage I'm interested in. There's a little girl in this j Home that would bring joy to any \ woman, or man e'ther, for that j matter." He smiled at the bewildered j expression of the other's face, and | climbed into his car. " Think it over, i Mr. Thornton. I'll come and see her again shortly, and advise you where to take her. For the present, good-bye. and a Merry Christmas," and the car leaped forward. A Merry Christmas! Thornton winced. He had just been told that Marcia —his Marcia —might be dying—might never spend another Christmas with him—and then to be wished " a Merry Christmas!" Ah! But hadn't the doctor hinted that that might be the trouble? After all, what did a man know of the work ings of a woman's mind —of her dreams, her desires, her regrets? Thornton's unhappy eyes fell to the j booklet in his hand. He turned the j pages listlessly at first, then more j slowly, and gradually a look of inter- 1 est replaced the misery in his face Little faces peeped at him- from every page, and .roguish, dimpled snujos ; called a smilq to his own face, or sad. 1 wistful eyes brought a lump to his 1 throat. And why shouldn't lie adopt one? No real, real reason at all. ***** The matron stood at the house-gates of the Home, watching the shinijig ; < black car swoop like a bird down the s hill and come whirring up the flower- t bordered drive. She watched the couple i keenly as Thornton helped his wife i from the car and assisted hor to tho - door, and she felt a warm glow as she noticed the gentle, eager face of tho i delicate-looking woman, and the placid, homely man with the humorous quirk < to his upper lip. c " The chairman of the board will be here shortly," she said, as she led them f inside, " but in the meantime, you can be making your choice. You want a 1 young child, I understand, so I've gathered them all in the primary I room." ' She ushered them into a large, ugly room as she spoke t and then paused * with an exclamation. At one of ] desks, with his head bent L~r «r? c r a I book, sat a sullen-faced nov of about } ten, apparently so engrossed with lus i 1 work that he did not notice the entry j f of the visitors. ] > " Why, Jimmy! Not out yet? " said j I the matron. " You shouldn't be mis- j s sing this lovely sun, you know. Hun I away out now." j [ " I don't want to go out," said the i 1 boy sullenly. " I'd rather stay in." 1 " Jimmy is my biggest problem," r sighed the matron, as they left the i c room. "He has been here only four i t months, and he had such shocking j ( treatment at home that he lias become j sullen and stubborn." She led her visi- j a tors into the busy buzzing primary | '1 room, where the little ones were I h gathered. j fl " How can I choose? " Marcia i v whispered, pleadingly. " ltvs your gift, a Ralph, so you ought to choose it." d "Not in your life!" declared her husband. " This is your job, my dear. \\ Truth to tell, Thornton was glad to b evade the responsibility of deciding, not 1 n on account of the one to be chosen, but at the thought of all those to be left, k for the sight of the rows of little o orphans had almost unmanned him. 11 Suddenly he thought of the littlo e: crouching heap of defiant misery lie ci had seen there a few minutes before. T He hesitated a moment, then pushed i tl the door softly and went in. The boy . m was still there, sitting 011 top of the I li desk, liiß Bulky little face sunk on his ' se

c-host, never stirring even when he felt the firm pressure of the mail's hand on his shoulder. 11 Ti'' a< ' ( '' o '' ' v °ice was gentle, j J here are lots of hard things in this i life tilings we don't understand—but I though they get us down sometimes, i we must get up again and face them I bravely. If we do that, laddie, we'll I beat them; if not, they'll beat us." The boy raised his brooding eyes, | surveying every comfortable, affluent detail of the man's appearance appraisingly, and gave a contemptuous grunt. | " W hat do you know about the hard ■ things!' ' he asked, scornfully. " Did i yeh ever have a step-father 'who got ! drunk an' near lammed the life out of | yell.-' Did yeh ever see yeh mother j slowly killed by a drunk 130381? " "No, thank God!" said Thornton. " Is you step-father dead now? " Yes! " and the word shot out venomously. "Ho was killed in an accident, an' people went to the funeral an' put flowers 011 his grave—an' do yell know what I did? " he continued, his eyes blazing into those above, him. " I went to the grave afterwards, an' I pulled the flowers off, an' I jumped on it, an' spit 011 it, an 1 I shouted out to him, ' I'm glad! glad! glad I ' " Ralph Thornton shuddered. What this child must have suffered, to cause a growth of such malignancy in so young a mind. "That was wicked, wasn't it?" taunted the boy. " You wouldn't have done that, would yeh? " " I don't know, laddie," said the man, soberly. " We never know what we'll do until we're tried, but I daresay I'd have felt something like that if I'd been treated as you were." The boy looked startled for an instant, and for the first time his savage little face relaxed. " I wish—l could've had you for n step-father," he said, suddenly, after a long pause. " I believe I could've been good then—" A strange thrill shot through Thornton's heart at the unexpected and ingenuous words. A father! He—to Jim! "Well, why not, son?" he said. " I want a son badly, and if you're willing I'll adopt you, and you shall be my hoy, and I'll be your father." j The bos' lifted dazed, incredulous | eyes. I " Yeh don't mean it! "he gasp°d j " Yeh o'ny kiddin' me—" | " I mean every word of it, son," i said Thornton, earnestly, and with a I smothered cry the boy threw himself I on his knees and buried his face against | the man's legs. j " I'll be good," he sobbed. " I'll be good, an' I'll work, sir—you see if .1 don't. I'll work me hands off if you'll ! o'ny take me an' like me a bit," and j the wet eyes looked pleadingly up into the pitiful ones above, j "There! there!" Thornton's tones | were husky. " You'll be all right now, ! 6on. You'll have a good home, and I you'll love 1 your new mother, too. J know." ! " AVill she—will she like me, de yeh ; think? " quavered the boy, doubtfully. " Sure she will, laddie," said Thornj ton stoutly, and devoutly hoping that : his confidence would bo justified : mentally braced himself as he heard I his wife's voice at the door. ; "Oh, Ralph!" she cried. "We've j been looking for you everywhere. Look, : Ralph! See what I have, and tell me i you like my new daughter. Isn't she | a wee darling, Ralph? " Ralph Thornton stroked the dark j curly head nestling against his wife'» i own fair hair. " Some kid! " he agreed, admiringly, ! and then, with feigned lightness, " but I you can't have it all on your own, you know, Marcia. 1 thought we might a a well make it a proper family while we were about it, so I'm—l'm going to adopt Jim here—subject to the Board's approval, of course. This is my boy Jim, Marcia." "Ralph! You're joking!" she exclaimed. "Two of them! Oh, dear I How funny—" she began to Laugh, but one look at the boy's fearfully—expectant face, with its red, swollen eyelids, restored her gravity, and her expression softened as a sudden dewiness dimmed her vision. Clasping the little girl close with one arm, she held out the other with a lovely motherly gesture, and with a queer cry tly? boy stumbled to her feet and hid his fac» in her lap. " Oh Jim! " she said, softly. " How glad I am, and what a happy family we shall be. Are you going to lov® your new mother, Jim? " " I'll love yeh all nje life," said th<* boy, chokingly. Ralph Thornton sat on the porch, tho paper in his hand, listening to thw babel of sounds coming from the recesses of the house —the noise of hammering, the swish of ferns and tho rustle of leafy branches, the boisterous merriment of children mingled with the soft, happy laughter of a woman. " As though one could read with all that rumpus." lie grumbled, while the contented smile on his face belied the exasperation in his tones. The telephone-bell roused him, and he hastened to answer the call. His face beamed as the doctor's voice came over the wires. "That you, Mr. Thornton? Goodl I thought of running over to-morrow to take another look at your wife " " Sorry to interrupt, doctor, but 3' OU don't need to bother about a professional visit, though we'd be glad to see you otherwise. Matter of fact, the medicine you left fixed the wife up all right—no, not the stuff in tho bottlo —the stuff in the book." " Book? What book? " The doctor's voice was puzzled. " The illustrated booklet about the Orphanage. 1 took your advice, doctor. " You don't mean to say you'-** adopted a youngster! " " Xo, doctor. 1 never do thing* by halves. I've adopted two." "Two!" The doct or\ explosive laugh came ringieg <*ver the wires. " You don't mean it, Thornton." " I though. Boy and girl—Jim n- l an Judy. Finest kids you ever saw." " And you wife is better, you say?" " Tip-top. Getting on like a house a-firc. They're all in there now, decorating the house for Christmas, and you'd think Bedlam was loose. Wouldn't like to come out and play Father Christmas tomorrow night, I suppose, would you?" " I wouldn't deprive you of that pleasure for worlds. Thornton, but believe me, this is the best news I've heard for many a day. Well, give my regards to the family, and 1 11 come out and see 'em as soon as 1 can. In the meantime, good-bye, and a Merry Christmas. A Merry Christmas! The words had Ei significance never appreciated by Thornton before. Moiling them round his tongue, savouring their new, rich flavour, he started lor his chair again, when a crash and a general uproar ir res ted him and sent him, chuckling, Jown the hall. "That's the sixth time," he said, ivith satisfaction, and his smile broadened as he reached the drawing •00111 and surveyed the wreck. Marcia and little Judith lay, helpess with laughter, among the branches >f the prostrate tree, while Jim, with many rueful apologies and incoherent ■xplanations, manfully tried to extricate them from the enmeshing leaves. I'lie finest sight—the grandest sound in lie world, Thornton decided, giving a ievv zest to living, a new piquancy to ife. This was going to be a real festive eason. A Merry Christmas, indeed.